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RACHEL. 



A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS. 



BY 



ANNA LENIHAN-KLEIN. 







NEW YORK: 



1882. 




RACHEL. 



A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS. 



BY 



ANNA LENIHAN-KLEIN. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1882, by 

ANNA LENIHAN-KLEIN, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,. 



CHARACTERS. 



LORD WINFORD. 

ALFRED, his son by first marriage. 

WALTER, Lady Winford's son by her first marriage. 

LORD GORDON. 

SIR FRANCIS. 

OSWALD BURTON. 

JACK WELMORE, assistant gardener in Winford Place. 

ADOLPHUS, Lord Winford's footman. 

LADY WINFORD, Lord Winford's second wife. 

RACHEL. 

MRS. DORA MELVIL, wife of the head gardener and inspector 
of Winford Place. 

LILY, her daughter. 

JEANETTE, Lady Winford's waiting maid. 

MAGGIE, Oswald Burton's niece. 



Time of Action, the Pkesent. 



\ 



1 



RACHEL. 



ACT FIRST. 



( Garden at Winford Place. An arbor on the left side in front of 

the stage.) 

SCENE I.— Enter Maggie. 

Maggie. [Runs across the stage, disappearing into the wing,] 
Enter Walter. 

Walter. [Buns over the stage, disappearing in a different di- 
rection.'] 

Maggie. [Returns and runs to the arbor. Pulls out the contents 
of her pocket and hides them.] So that job's done. [Laughs.] I 
have been a hidin' it ! Now Master Walter, come on, and go a 
searchin' me. [Pulls out a big pocket.] You will not be a findin' 
nothin' there in my pocket ! [Laughing.] They be always a savin' : 
Maggie is a fool! She is so stupid, can nivir do nothin', not 
even can be a sewing a stitch of her own clothes. But I do 
know a sewing now, for sure ! The pocket they had be' a put- 
tin' in my dress be so awful small I nivir could be a puttin' 
nothin' in it. Now I have be' a makin' a pocket mineself, and 
now I can be a puttin' in this here pocket all the sweet things 
I can a layin' my hands on, and I be a lettin' my arms dangle 
like this [dangles her arms], and be a lookin' as inicent as a new 
born babby. They cannot be a stop pin' me now and a askin' 
me : Maggie, what is it you be a carryin' in that there bundle 
there? Have you be' stealin' agin? [Laughs.] I am a gettin' 
smart, awful smart ! But this time that bad boy Walter was 
nearly a catchin' me. Now I be a hatin' him and his stingy 
mother, Lady Winford ! They nivir be a wantin' to give a 
poor gal nothin' but pitaters and bread. They want to be a 
eatin' all the good things thimself. But they will nivir make 
me a eatin' only bread and pitaters. Oh, I am gettin' smart, 
awful smart ! 

1* 



6 

Walter. [Has been searching around during the latter part of 
Maggie's speech.] Where did that sly fool hide herself? Aha! 
I see her now ! [Hushes at Maggie.] I caught you at last ; you 
idiot ; you thief. 

Maggie. Now, Master Walter, don't be hard on poor gal 
Maggie, who be all alone in the world ! Her aunt have gone a 
dyin' and a leavin' her all alone ! Oh, my poor aunt ! [Hollows.] 
Huh, huh, huh! 

Walter. Now don't play that old trick of yours on me, idiot! 
You never cared a snap for your aunt. Come with me ! [Pulls 
Maggie along.] 

Maggie. Now, Master Walter, what is you goin^to do with 
me poor gal? 

Walter. Now that I think of it, I'll first search you. Pull 
out your pocket, quick ! 

Maggie. [Pulls out her pocket.] There ! Nothin' ! 

Walter. Who put that immense pocket in your skirt? 

Maggie. For sure, not I ! Iveribody is a knowin' that poor, 
stupid gal Maggie nivir can sew a stitch. The folks will all be 
a tellin' you that, for sure ! 

Walter. Well, I shall soon find out about that. Come to 
my mother ! 

Maggie. Oh, Master Walter, good Master Walter, nivir be a 
doin' that to poor gal Maggie ! She will be a beatin' me ! Oh, 
let me go ! 

Walter. Come, you thief, or — 

Maggie. [Frees herself from his hold and runs away.] 

Walter. No use running away, you stupid girl ! This time 
you shall not escape unpunished ! I will go and tell mamma ! 

[Exit. 

Enter Jeanette, looking around searchingly \ 

Jeanette. Milor be not yet here. The fine aristocratic vorld 
vill never be punctial ! 

Enter Maggie, crying. 

Maggie. Huh, huh, huh, huh ! 

Jeanette. Ah, mon Dieu ! it is zat stupid girl Maggie. Vat 
you cry for? 

Maggie. My poor aunt has be' a dyin' ! Has be' a leavin' 
poor gal Maggie all alone ! 

Jeanette. You be a' idiot to cry for zat. Prenez-garde ! My 
lady be enrag£e — mad ; she say you have taken ze cake, who be 
to go on ze dinner table. 

Maggie. [Cunningly.] Master Jack be a lookin' for you, Miss 
Jeanette ! Shall I be a tellin' you what he be a sayin' yester- 
day of Miss Jeanette? 



Jeaneite. Poor Maggie ! I pity you zat you have perdu, lost 
your aunt. [Gives her money.'] Take this to buy gateau, cake! 
Dites moi, vhat vas Monsieur Jaques say yesterday ? 

Maggie. I heerd him a sayin', Miss Jeanette be the most Du- 
tiful gal he ivir seed. 

Jeanette. You be an very good girl. If you hear Monsieur 
Jaques say more of me, tell me. 

Maggie. Thankee, Miss Jeanette, I will. [Jeanette retires 
to the 'background.'] She is a settin' her cap at Jack Welmore. 
But Jackey is over heels and ears in love with pretty Lily Mel- 
vil and will not be a puttin' his foot in the trap of that perli- 
vous frenche, as Jackey is always a callin' her. Oh, I am get- 
tin' smart, awful smart. [Exit. 

Enter Lord Gordon. 

Jeanette, Yoila milor ! Je suis charmee de vous voir. Lord 
Gordon. 

Gordon. Beg your pardon for being late. Charming Jean- 
ette, what news have you to communicate to me? 

Jeanette. My Lady Winford vill be in zat summer-house yon- 
der viz Sir Francis, to who she given an rendez-vous, meeting 
at half-past two to-day. 

Gordon. Thanks, dear Jeanette! But let me not prove a 
delinquent tax-payer to your kindness in communicating your 
invaluable news to me. 

Jeanette. Je vous .remercie, milor ! I vish I be an Mylady. 
In mine country mine Myladies had always un ami decceur, an 
friend of ze heart male, and zer husband an friend female of ze 
heart. If I be an Mylady I vould have no ozer cavalier of ze 
heart, but Milor Gordon. 

Gordon. It is not necessary, my charming Jeanette, to occupy 
such an exalted position to be my friend. 

Jeanette. [Leans herself on Gordon's arm and holds up her 
cheek.] 

Gordon. [Looks through his glasses at her cheek. Aside.] Too 
much paint ! [Aloud.] My principles forbid me to take such a 
liberty, Miss Jeanette. 

Jeanette. The milors in mine country vere not zo modest as 
milor. If milor marry, vill milor have ze goodness to place 
me viz my lady, your vife? 

Gordon. I will not miss the opportunity to secure such a 
treasure for the future Lady Gordon. 

Jeanette. Merci, milor, j'ai l'honneur de vous saluer. 

[Jeanette lows and exit. 

Gordon. [Alone.] I do not object generally to kissing pretty 
maids. But as the taste of raw oysters and crabs are apt to 
shock an uneducated palate, likewise the sight of a made-up 
woman acts on my optic nerves. By Jove ! , I should like to 
have a glimpse in Miss Jeanette's past ! She has been sailing so 



8 



long in the atmosphere of her Mesdames Francaises, that she 
has grown an undesirable object to bestow kisses on. She went 
through too many storms, got too much damaged, too much 
patched up. Half-past two ! Lady Winford will soon be 
here. Do I love her? Ah, bah ! A fellow blasg, like I am, wants 
champagne moussg, absynthe! Voila tout ! If Lady Winford 
has resolved to give me a successor I will try the golden sun of 
the southern clime, and in dolce far niente seek forgetfulness in 
the mellow black eyes of the daughters of its soil. Ah, there 
comes my Goddess ! escorted by her new conquest ! She is 
changing her mind ; she passes the summer-house and wends 
her steps in this direction. I will hide myself ! Hide? Ah, 
bah ! everything is allowed in love and war ! [Exit. 

Enter Lady Winford and Sir Francis. 

'Sir Fr. Compose yourself, Mylady ! Tell me what are your 
projects for the future? 

Lady. Before communicating them to you, I will force my- 
self to perform the bitter task of making you acquainted with 
my miserable past. 

Sir Fr. And will you then authorize me, dearest friend, to 
act in your behalf ? 

Lady. I feel how dependent we are in this world on our true 
friends. My prospects for the future seem to brighten in your 
presence. 

Sir Fr. All that is in my power to effect your happiness, 
dearest, shall be done. 

Lady. Thanks, dear friend. When Sir Walter, my first hus- 
band, summoned me to his deathbed, he made me swear a 
solemn oath to marry Lord Winford's son and heir, in order to 
insure the future of our child, for whom to provide, for his 
crippled means did not permit him. This cruel oath made me 
the victim of all the misery that was to come ! My heart was 
yours, dearest, but I had to silence my love for the best and 
truest man ! In refusing your noble offer to become your wife — 

Sir Fr. You blighted all my hopes, made me the most 
wretched of beings! No longer able to endure the tortures 
caused by seeing you at the side of another, I left my coun- 
try. But when your letter reached me, informing me of your 
terrible fate, I resolved to fly to your rescue, dearest, and, 
if possible, save you from being the victim of your husband's 
infamy. 

Lady. Dear Francis, how shall I ever be able to requite your 
chivalrous kindness? 

Sir Fr. By permitting me to devote my whole life to you, 
best of women! But let me hear all concerning your trials, 
dear friend ; speak ! 

Lady. When I had crossed the threshold of my new home as 



9 

Lord Winford's wife, I was far from imagining what mortifica- 
tion, misery, was awaiting me. Shortly after my marriage, Lord 
Winford made me acquainted with the astounding fact, that he 
had contracted a secret marriage seven years before, which his 
father had refused to acknowledge, but that the beloved wife, 
death had bereaved him of, had left him a son. All these won- 
derful revelations he expected me to accept as a simple fact. 
The next day his son entered our house, whom he recommended 
to my love and care. My first surprise over, I congratulated 
myself to have an opportunity that would enable me to win my 
liusband's respect. A singular compassion and love took pos- 
session of me for the motherless boy, that prompted me to be- 
stow a mother's love on him. 

Sir Fr. Oh, what a noble heart is yours! 

Lady. But in spite of all my efforts to please him, my hus- 
band neglected me in the most marked manner. In truth, Sir 
Francis, he led me a wretched life ! Finally, my health gave 
way, and in compliance with the advice of my physicians, I 
visited Italy. Change of air and the balmy southern sea-wind 
soon restored my health again. Lady Trouville, a former 
school friend of mine, urged me to gratify her wish to give up 
the dreary seclusion of my life, and to take part in some inno- 
cent diversions of ber own. One day my legal adviser informed 
me that Lord Winford had commenced a suit for divorce 
against me, and advised me to return to England in order to de- 
fend myself against the reckless accusations.of my husband. On 
my return to England I learned of my husband's dangerous ill- 
ness. Forgetting all my wrongis, I hurried to his bedside to 
forgive him, to nurse him! 

Sir Fr. My dearest Mabel ! That was noble, generous ! 

Lady. My generous impulse was requited with disdain. He 
ordered me from his sight, and told me to wait for the decision 
of the divorce case. 

Sir Fr. For an honest man the depth of your husband's 
iniquity is scarcely comprehensible! But, dearest, let your 
cowardly husband and his mighty confederates achieve their 
jplans, let them get a divorce — and from this hour I will fervently 
pray for such a happy issue — I will give you justice, indisputable 
justice! I will unmask this shameless and treacherous man; 
right you before the world, and will take merciless vengeance 
:should any living soul breathe the slightest doubt against your 
loyalty ! 

Lady. Generous man ; how shall I ever be able to thank you? 

Sir Fr. When your hateful fetters have fallen off, and you 
are once more your owji mistress, it will be in your power, 
dearest, to reward me more than I deserve. Till that time 
jcomes to bless me, be assured of my courtesy and respect. 

Lady. Thanks, thanks, dearest friend. But, pray, leave me 



10 

now ; I prefer not to be seen with you. Let me bid you here 
farewell. 

Sir Fr. [Kisses Lady's hand.] Heaven bless you, dearest! 
Farewell ! 

[Sir Francis exit. 

Enter Lord Gordon. 

Gordon. [Laughing.] My lady, I never did your marvellous 
talent of acting justice! I must confess, though I am no moral 
essayist, you astonished me. Ha! ha! ha! I thought the 
world was coming to an end! 

Lady. Lord Gordon was vile enough to play the eavesdropper. 

Gordon. What an ugly word to issue from rosy lips, over 
which, a few minutes ago, were gliding the pathetically uttered 
sentences of an outraged wife's wrongs. The irrepressible mel- 
ancholy your face expressed in that moment, fired a plain prosaic 
Englishman to grow quite brilliant in your defense ; made him 
talk in the flowing language of a knight-errant a la Don 
Quixote, and made me, heartless fellow, nearly cry. [Laughs.] 
You must be possessed of witchcraft. 

Lady. Augustus, do not make me believe that your brain is 
unsettled. Your never-ending banter is growing wearisome of 
late. But, then, I may return the compliment ; you would make 
n first-class actor, too, Lord Gordon. 

Gordon. Pray do not fall in the common mistake of the 
vulgar herd. Neither you nor I would make a first- rate 
actor on the professional stage; though Lady Winford [bows] 
is a matchless actress in the drawing-room. The first requi- 
site to make a true, great actor, is a warm heart, otherwise 
the divine spark of genius, which, inspires a Clara Morris, a 
Marie Seebach, will never bless him. After my own fashion I 
am not exactly an execrable fellow, but your heart, which 
you pretended was melted in compassion for your husband's 
boy, could as little perform that miracle as the sun could 
melt a glittering diamond. But let us congratulate our- 
selves that we are not encumbered with such a troublesome 
thing, which sentimental idiots are pleased to call a heart. 
But, bless my soul, here I am talking away like a hair-brained 
fellow, about hearts and other nonsense, when I am most eager 
to have an explanation with Lady Winford about things which 
have a far greater interest for me. So you tired of me, queen of 
my heart, and I have a successor — a rival ? 

Lady. Augustus, you are abominably impudent, to-day, and 
I must advise you to avail yourself a little more of your good 
manners. 

Gordon . Your fashionable hangers-on in Italy ought to have 
^quite surfeited you with good manners. Oblige me by listening 
a little more graciously to my plebeian plain-speaking. 



11 



Lady. You have no more right to find fault with my actions 
than I with yours . 

Gordon. Mabel, what are you going to do with honest Sir 
Francis ? 

Lady. My dear Augustus, nothing is more annoying to our 
friends, or more destructive to our nervous system, than a 
scene ! 

Gordon. Mabel, what do you think Sir Francis will find out, 
if he should spend his time in the purpose of putting you before 
the world as an innocent lily ? What would he do if he heard 
some of your charming little Italian episodes ? What would he 
think if he were informed of the duel Lord Warwick fought for 
your sake, and was killed ? I am a good-for-nothing fellow, 
who does not care for such trifles, but it may cool the fire of 
your knight errant considerably. Please prevent this honest Sir 
Francis, whom I cannot refuse my esteem, from making himself 
the laughing-stock of the world. 

Lady. Take care, Lord Gordon, or I w T ill teach you how 
dangerous it is to trifle with a woman like me. 

Gordon. I am fully aware that the Goddess, at whose shrine 
I am worshipping, is a false idol ; but, being also aware of my 
own un worthiness, whose object in life consists merely in kill- 
ing an alarming amount of time, I have made up my mind that 
I still imagine myself in love with Lady Winford, and that I 
am determined to stand my ground against any man who 
should dare to dispute it with me. 

Lady. Augustus, you are so overpowering in your arrogance 
that my poor wit has not the least chance to stand the fire of 
your volley of sarcasm. I will surrender; will throw myself 
on your mercy. 

Gordon. You will promise me then not to receive Sir Francis 
again ? 

Lady. For the sake of a compromise, I will grant you many 
things; but you shall never induce me to be impolite. I con- 
sider a breach of good-breeding an unpardonable sin, my dear 
Lord Gordon. 

Gordon. For some time past the suspicion took possession of 
me, that you intended to break with me, Mabel. 

Lady. I am sorry, dear Augustus, that you have not more 
confidence in your influence over me. 

Gordon. My dearest Mabel, if that influence still exist, will you 
grant me another favor ? 

Lady. It appears to me that Lord Gordon is going to make 
an unlimited use of my surrender. 

Gordon. Dear Mabel, try to be a little kinder to Lord Win- 
ford's poor boy. 

Lady. Poor boy ! As if I were beating and starving him ! 
Lord Gordon, I am making a discovery. 

Gordon. My lady ? 



12 



Lady. An innocent blushing maiden will make you discover 
your heart. Adoring in this maiden the model of Spartan 
virtue, you will readily take on your manly shoulders the long dis- 
dained matrimonial yoke, and rapturously declare yourself the^ 
most blessed of men. 

Gordon. In her enchanting moods of teasing, my queen sways. 
her scepter mercilessly over her devoted slave. 

Lady. The consternation and disappointment of your lady 
admirers will be profound ! Please do not draw your lips in 
that inimitable smile. Your future is read, Lord Gordon I 

Gordon. [Kisses Lady's hand.] The bewitching mystery of 
your sparkling eyes has taught my taste to choose a more 
interesting object for my adoration than the dull and somnolent 
picture you drew of the future Lady Gordon. 

Lady. Ah, a man's taste is unaccountable ! 

Gordon. Dearest, you have no cause to think so. In your 
enchanting presence everything seems to be couleur de rose. 

Lady. Flatterer ! [Puts her arm in Lord Gordon's and, ex^ 
eunt.\ 

Enter Maggie. 

Maggie. I could not be a makin' out what they was a talkin r 
so mighty fine; but I knowed she be a lyin' about her good 
husband and cuttin' up awful with her sweetheart. When my 
aunt was a kickin' the bucket, the folks was a tellin' me she be 

[Enter Oswald Burton.] 

a goin' to Heaven. I don't believe it ! For sure, she has be* a 
goin' where my Lady VVinford will be a goin' — in the hot place, . 
for sure. My lady is a callin' me always a fool and a thief, when 
I am a takin' a little cake of all the lots of fine things she is a 
eatin' herself. Thief yourself, my lady! For just now she was 
a stealin' her good husband's name and honor and all. 

Oswald. There you are right, Maggie; name and honor 
and all ! That these womeu well understand to rob us of. 

Maggie. [Joyfully^ Why uncle, dear uncle, be it you ? Be 
you a comin' home at last ? — But aunt, your wife, has be' a goin' 
a dyin'. 

Oswald. Heaven have mercy on her soul ! She stands in 
great need of it ! Are you sorry you lost her, Maggie ? 

Maggie. Not a bit, uncle ! When she had been a drinkin* 
she always be a beatin' me awful then ! Look, there be still a 
scar from the last blow she give me. 

Oswald. Yes, she was a tartar; there is no denying it. It 
would have needed superhuman energy to put her down, and I 
did not possess that invaluable quality. 

Maggie. For sure, uncle, you be always soft and good. Oh, 
if I had knowed where to be a findin' you, I would have be' a 



IS 



rtirinih' away from aunt, too, like you was a runnin' away from 
her, and come a stayin' with you, clear uncle. 

Oswald. Ha, ha, ha ! Maggie, you would have had a bad 
time of it. I was compelled to constant motion, which crippled 
my powers to make a cheerful home. 

Maggie. Where have you be' a goin' when you be' a runnin 1 
away from aunt ? 

Oswald. First to the river, which I thought the safest place 
wherein to hide myself forever ! But I have always been a 
weak fellow, only fit to dream, to scrape on my violin and — well, 
I changed my mind and became a tramp — a common, wretched 
tramp. 

Maggie. A tramp, uncle ! 

Oswald. Aha, I thought myself an eagle, when, in youthful en* 
thusiasm of my art, I began to try my wings! They were soon 
clipped by my pretty young wife, though she was my inferior in 
mind and station. 

Maggie. And what have you be' a doin' all the time, dear 
uncle ? 

Oswald. Sleeping, dreaming and hoping for death! But 
death did not come because I was no more wanted than a stray 
dog ! I had to drag out my life ! 

Maggie. Uncle, you nivir be a wantin' to be put in the cold 
dark ground ? Oh, horrid ! 

Oswald. Ah, what appears to you, ignorant girl, the most 
dreadful of things, gives me a wild, a savage satisfaction ! To 
see this weak and diseased body, which keeps my soul in bond- 
age, fall off and set my spirit free, causes me to triumph like 
over my direst enemy ! Bury this enemy of mine ? No, let 
them throw it to the hounds, saving corruption its slow work. 

Maggie. Now you be a talkin' horrid and godless ! But if I 
had knowed where you be' a trampin', dear uncle, I would have 
be' a trampin' with you. I like to go a trampin' ! 

Oswald. To me also it had some charms! Though often 
hungry and thirsty, dragging myself along in the damp, the 
dust, the scorching sun; stumbling over stones with bleeding 
feet— life seemed to me an eternal night! There were bright 
days again, when lying lazily in the deep grass, the birds send- 
ing forth their joyous songs, the fragrance of forest and plain, 
the blossoming woodlands with their murmuring brooks, brought 
back peace and happiness to my mind ! My love for all that 
was noble and great revived and moved me to tears! Ah, it 
would be worth the trouble to chronicle the mischief done to 
men by these cruel, heartless women ! 

Maggie* Why, uncle, be there no good women at all then in 
this world ? 

Oswald. [Lifts Ms cap.] Honor to them ! They do exist 
and I render homage to them ! Blessed the man who can pride 

2 



u 



himself on such a treasure ! [Puts on his cap.] But I was no£ 
among these fortunates ! Your aunt did not whip me, slay me ; 
but she did worse ! Our whole campaign w T as a bad one. Her 
allies, wickedness and depravity, were too strong for my sensi- 
tive 'nature. Ah, let her look down upon me and behold her 
work ! What kept me alive was the only thing which bends 
not beneath the yoke of time — hope ! Now, that she is gone 
and dead, my past seems to me a horrid tale that is told ! 

Maggie. Now you will nivir no more be a leavin' me, dear, 
good uncle ? 

Oswald. If I am not overtaken by death, which perhaps will 
soon come now, as I may become of value to some one, I will 
earnestly strive to make a home for you, my Maggie. I will try 
to be faithful in the end to my soft blue-eyed sister, who on her 
death-bed implored of me, with tears of prayer, to be a father to 
the child cradled by her side — a new soul just tumbled into 
this cold, hard world ! I shall then have death in peace and a 
human heart by my side that loves me ! By this atonement to 
your mother I hope to deserve a quiet place in the great here- 
after ! [Lifts his cap and holds Maggie in his arm.] 



END OF ACT FIRST. 



ACT SECOND. 



SCENE I. — Scenery of the First Act. 
~Rac:sel, Lily. When the curtain rises they enter, 

Lily. Madam, mother will be here in a few minutes. Over 
there is a nice summer-house, please rest yourself therein. If 
you will allow me, I will show you the way. 

Rachel. [Nods assent.'] [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

Jack Welmore. [Enters, looks searchingly around.] I wonder 
what little Lily is about. 

Lily. [Returns and wants to run off quickly.] 

Jack. Miss Lily, you are quite in a hurry this morning ! 

Lily. Ah, Mister Jack, you are quite right, I am in a great 
hurry. Everything seems to come together, to-day. My head 
is quite in a whirl. 

Jack. May I ask what could produce such an effect on Miss 
Lily's sedate little head ? 

Lily. O, Jack, the third egg of my canaries has been hatched 
out an hour ago, and the little birdies look lovely. 

Jack. I cannot help entertaining some doubts regarding their 
loveliness. They remind me of new born babies; a delicious 
sight for their parents, but of little interest to strangers. 

Lily. Oh, Jack, and Minny 

Jack. Minny ! Who is Minny ? 

Lily. My darling white pussy ! She has got this morning five 
lovely snow-white kittens. 

Jack. My gracious ! what astounding family events. 1 can 
plainly understand how they must have put little Lily's head all 
in a whirl. 

Lily. You mock me ! Jack, you have no heart. [Pouting.] 

Jack. Help me discover it, dear Lily. [Grasps her hand.] 

Lily. Jack, I cannot stay a minute longer. Martha Graham 
is going to be married, to-day, and I am one of her bridesmaids. 

Jack. Dear Lily, would you not prefer to be the bride your- 
self ? 

Lily. Jack, stop ! Mother has advised me whenever a man 
begins to talk of brides and hearts 

Jack. Well, what then ? 

Lily. To run away. [Runs off.] 



16 



Jack. If Miss Lily Melvil does not change her name for mine 
bye and bye, I will no longer call myself Jack Welmore! [Exit. 

Enter Mrs. Dora Melvil, Lily. 

Melvil. Lily, where did you say the lady is waiting for me ? 

Lily. In the summer-house yonder, dear mother. 

Melvil. Return now to the house. I will soon join you, my 
darling, and dress you for your post of honor. 

Lily. [Embraces 1 er mother.'] Dear mother, you are too good! 

Melvil. [Kisses Lily.] Not too good. My darling deserves a 
mother's tender love. [Exit Lily. 

Enter Rachel. 

Mrs. Melvil. Ah, madam, there you are already. I was just 
going to join you in the summer-house. Whom have I the 
honor to address? 

Rachel. Dora, do you not know me ? 

Melvil. Madam, I have not the faintest recollection ever to 
have seen your face. 

Rachel. Perhaps you will remember me better by this ring. 
A token of your friendship. 

Melvil. I recognize it as the one I gave to Rachel, my friend. 

Rachel. Dora, Rachel stands face to face with you. 

Melvil. [They embrace and kiss.] Rachel, dearest Rachel ! ! 

Rachel. My dearest Dora ! ! 

Melvil. I had long given up all hope, that you were still 
among the living; I have mourned for you as for the dead! 

Rachel. I wish I were dead! released from a life full of sor- 
rows ! Dora, I am worse than dead ! I am parted forever from 
all I hold dearest in the world ! I am lonely and an exile ! 

Melvil. Dear Rachel, compose yourself! What could have 
changed your tranquil life into such misery ? 

Rachel. Let me open my heart unreservedly to you, dear 
friend of my youth ! Let me tell you the story of my bitter 
past ! 

Melvil. Rest assured of my deepest sympathy in all that con- 
cerns you. Speak, dearest Rachel ; I am listening. 

Rachel. You will remember, dear Dora, when my father, the 
clergyman of this parish, died, I went to India to live with my 
sister. 

Melvil. Indeed, I do remember the day I had to part with 
my dearest friend. 

Rachel. Thanks, my good Dora. The same vessel, which car- 
ried me to my future home, had young Lord Gerald Winford 
on board too, who intended to make a tour to India. 

Melvil. I remember the day he left here very well, too. We 
could never understand what made the young Lord stay away 
so long from England, after he had once left it. 



17 

Rachel. Lord Winford seemed overjoyed to meet me. One 
evening he spoke to me of great love for me ; pleaded to me 
gently, fervently, to become his wife. Even as a child, he as- 
sured me, when he visited my father's house as a pupil, he had 
felt a tender admiration for me. To me he had always appeared 
the most exquisite being in creation ! He had been the idol, 
the hero of my girlhood ! how could I then withhold from him 
that which long was his, my love ? His friend, a clergyman, 
who accompanied him to India, yielding to his wishes, united us 
one evening, and so I became the wife of 

Mefoil. Lord Gerald Winford, the master of this place ? 

Rachel. Yes, Dora. The ceremony of our nuptials over, we 
went on deck, where we were greeted by the sailors with the 
hearty shout: " Long life and joy to bride and groom ! " After 
thanking them for their kind greetings we seated ourselves in a 
quiet comer of the vessel. The night was clear and beautiful. A 
luminous silver -moon poured down its light. With our hands 
clasped together we remained silent in our great happiness. 
Then the simple but touching melody of a sailor boy's song 
moved me to tears. Gerald drawing me fondly to his heart, 
whispered softly in my ear: "My dear Rachel, you have taught 
me the meaning of true love and nothing shall part us evermore 
but death ! " Our dream of undisturbed happiness lasted for 
six years. A son had been born to us after the first year of our 
union. No language can describe with what delight we greeted 
this new tie between us. The world seemed to me a Heaven, a 
paradise on earth ! Then matters took a different turn. Gerald 
grew pale and attenuated, which filled my heart with apprehen- 
sions. One afternoon I was sitting in a shady nook in the gar- 
den, and in musingly glancing up I saw Gerald, holding a letter 
in his hand, seat himself on a bench. He did not mind the hot 
sun pouring down on him. He sat there for a considerable time ; 
to all appearance buried in deep thought. Of a sudden he 
dashed his hair from his forehead as if to chase away all thought 
too ; then his eyes, heavy with languor, closed, and with a weary 
sigh he fell asleep. Then I rose, went noiselessly up to him, 
resolutely seized the letter, which had dropped on the ground, 
and read it. Its contents made me shiver in the hot sun. I 
learned from it that Lord Winford, Gerald's father, in the sever- 
est form, refused to acknowledge his son's marriage. Treating 
the whole affair with a glacial sneer, he put to his son the alter- 
native, to dissolve our marriage and then wed the lady he 
had selected for him or lose his title and fortune, which he 
would, in case of his son's disobedience, as the estate was 
not entailed, leave to a nephew. To know was to act. Only 
death shall part us ! These the words he had spoken to me the 
eve of our marriage! My mind was firmly made up! I would 
restore him again to his father's love ; save him and our son 

2* 



18 



from poverty and ruin ! The next day I rowed my boat out to 
sea. Gerald, presuming T was going to take my usual exercise, 
ran up to the shore, holding our darling boy by his hand. In 
waving their handkerchiefs to me, Gerald called out not to 
stay too long and not venture too far out. I waved my hand- 
kerchief in response to theirs; but I could not utter a single 
word, a sound! I would have shrieked like a wounded deer, 
had I uttered a single word ! Then I set to rowing, to rowing 
with all my strength ! till I came to the spot I had selected for 
my landing. I jumped on land; then grasped the boat, which, 
clutched in my hands, appeared to me like a weapon with which 
I was about to sever the tie between me and my beloved ones — 
and with my eyes intensely riveted on the waters I stood mo- 
tionless, waiting for the rising tide! — Then the tide rose! 
I pushed the boat far out to sea and the fast fleeting waters soon 
drifting it away carried with it too my happiness — my all ! In 
seeing the boat drifting more and more out of sight, I felt the 
impassable gulf between me and all I held most precious in this 
world, widen more and more too. When it had disappeared 
altogether I felt like one of earth's loneliest creatures ! I felt 
like sinking into an abyss ! Then a paroxysm of grief seized up- 
on me, and in the tumultuous frenzy of my madness and despair, 
I rushed to the sea to rid myself of a life I no longer could en- 
dure !— Of a sudden the sun, so long hidden behind dark clouds, 
burst forth in all its glory, the tension of my nerves gave way, 
and tears, so long withheld from me, streamed in torrents from 
my blinded eyes, relieving my overburdened heart ! Then I fell 
on my knees calling out: " Father in Heaven ! if I have erred 
in shaping my fate, I will not add to it the sin to take the life 
you gave me! and whilst they, my dearest, live — I too will live! 
— You weep, clear friend ? 

Mehil. Your misfortunes, your noble conduct, moves me 
deeply! But, dearest friend, what could have prevailed on you 
to alter your determination and leave your exile ? 

Rachel. x\fter that impassable gulf had arisen between me 
and my beloved ones I went in disguise to Australia to my uncle. 
To no living soul, save to him, have I ever breathed my secret. 
He pitied me with all his heart and bestowed on me a father's 
love. Four months ago he died, leaving me heiress to the great 
wealth which he had acquired in the latter part of his life. 
Then a rapid change took place in my mind. The yearning de- 
sire to see husband and child, after a separation of ten years, 
once more grew upon me; but imperceptibly the desire changed 
into a wild, uncontrollable craving of my desolate heart ! Dora, 
here on my knees, let me beseech you to assist me to see, even 
at a distance, my husband and my son! 

Mehil. Dear Rachel, your emotion might betray you. Sup- 
press your desire ! 



19 



Rachel. Dora, this desire has grown unconquerable — irre- 
sistible ! 

Melvil. Even if I be willing to yield to you, we must post- 
pone it, because Lord Winford is 

Rachel. Dead ? 

Mehil. No, he lives ! 

Rachel. Thanks'! And my son ? 

Mehil. Lives too ; and I may easily procure for you an oppor- 
tunity to meet with him, as, for the present, he lives in this 
place. 

Rachel. Dearest ! Thanks, thanks ! ! 

Mehil. But do not betray yourself ; it would only add more 
disgrace to the house of Winford. 

Rachel. Disgrace? 

Mehil. Come to my room, dear Rachel ; I will tell you all 
that has happened since you parted from your husband. 

Rachel. Oh, Dora, what fatal news is there in store for me ? 

Mehil. Come, dearest ; you shall know all ; come ! [Exeunt. 

Enter Maggie. 

Maggie. Dear uncle be so tired, after he was a trampin' so 
long. Now he be a sleepin' there in the deep grass like a good 
dear babby ; and while he be a sleepin' I will go a eatin' my lunch. 
[Runs to the arbor and takes her bundle out of its hiding "placed] 
There nivir was a botherin' so much around this here quiet 
place than to-day. There is simebody a comin' agin a botherin' 
me! [Cries.]. Huh! huh! huh! 

Enter Alfked, who walks to the arbor. 

Alfred. Poor Maggie; who has hurt you? 

Maggie. [Laughs.] Be it you, Master Alfred ? I was a 
thiukin' it be simebody else ! Ha, ha, ha, ha ! 

Alfred. And did you intend to make that somebody else 
believe you were crying? [Maggie nods assent and laughs.] 
What does it all mean, Maggie ? 

Maggie. [Gleefully.] Now, Master Alfred, I am gettin' 
smart, awful smart ! You is not for nothin' kiltiwatin' my 
mind, as you always is a callin' it. Readin' these nice butiful 
stories for me poor gal to make me clivir. Oh, I am gettin' 
smart, awful smart ! 

Alfred. I do not understand you, Maggie. How can my 
reading teach you to feign crying ? 

Maggie. [FranMy and gleefully says:] Now, Master Alfred, 
I be a tellin' you iverything. When the folks is a askin' me : 
Maggie, is you sorry your aunt be go a dyin* ? I always says, 
Oh, no, I be mighty glad she can nivir no more come now 
a botherin' me. 

Alfred. You did wrong, Maggie, to answer like that. 



20 

Maggie. Now you be tellin 1 me hixiktly what the folks is a 
tellin' me and a callin' me a' ungrateful gal. Why, my aunt 
was a beatin' and knockin' me about like a dog, since my uncle 
had be' a runnin' away from her. But now I am a gettin' smart, 
awful smart ! If they is a askin' me now: Maggie is you sorry 
to have be 7 a losin' your aunt ? I begins to holler awful and 
then they be always a prasin' me for a good gal and give me 
a somethin' ter kinsole me. Oh, I am gettin' smart, awful smart ! 
That is a comin' from your readin' so mighty line books to me 
poor stupid gal, Master Alfred ! 

Alfred. If my reading helps to make you a hypocrite and a 
liar, I will discontinue it for the future. 

Maggie. [Crying.'] Oh, Master Alfred, now ye be angry with 
me. I will be no bad gal no more. There ye has that butiful 
book of Shinderalla ! Oh, Master Alfred, be good with the 
stupid gal Maggie, and go a readin' her about Shinderalla ! 

Alfred. I will pardon you this time, Maggie, but never tell 
a lie again. 

Maggie. Oh, Master Alfred, ye be so kind, so good ! Come, 
let us a sit tin' down here, and go now a readin' that butiful 
story. 

Alfred. [They sit down.'] Maggie, where did I leave off yes- 
terday. 

Maggie. Where the sisters of poor gal Shinderalla made her 
a workin' so hard and the sisters be a eatin' all the pastry and 
sweetmeats Shinderalla be a making and the poor Shinderalla 
had nivir nothin' but work, and rags, and a straw pallet, and a 
crust. 

Alfred. [Reading.] Heigho! How tired I am! Said poor 
Cinderella. Two little years only since my own dear mother 
died. My father gave me soon a step-mother, who treats me 
very cruelly. Then Cinderella sat down and began to sing: 
[Speaks softly and with emotion.] 

I'm poor Cinderella, a hard lot is mine; 

Yet before my harsh tyrants I dare not repine. 

My mother has left me, I'm weary and worn ; 

While memory haunts me with her that is gone ! [ Weeps.] 

Maggie. Now, Master Alfred, if you is a cryin' ye'll make me 
a, cryin' too. I never want to hear no more about Shinderalla 
if she makes you a cryin'. Master Alfred, why was your mother 
a leavin' ye all alone with your bad step-mother ? 

Alfred. My dear mother would never have left me if she 
could have helped it 

Maggie. Well, where be she then ? 

Alfred. In Heaven ! Ah, I wish I could join her ! 

Maggie. You mean to go a dyin' ? You must not go a dyin', 
dear, good, kind Master Alfred ! I wish Lady Winford, your 
step-mother, went a dyin'. Master Alfred, is Lady Winford a 
Turk? 



21 

Alfred. Maggie, why do you ask such a queer question ? 

Maggie. I hears Jack Welmore always a sayin' : My Lady 
^Vinford has a heart as hard as a Turk's ! And so I be a thinkin' 
iny Lady Winford be a Turk. 

Alfred, Be careful, Maggie, or you might bring Jack and 
yourself into trouble. Maggie, where did you get all that cake ? 

Maggie. Mrs. Melvil was a givin' it me. 

Alfred. Is that true, Maggie ? 

Maggie. [Crying.] Now ye nivir will believe me nothin', no 
more ! 

Alfred. Do not cry, dear Maggie ; I do believe you, but do 
3iot eat too much; it might hurt your stomach. 

Maggie. Never ye fear, Master Alfred, my head may be weak, 
Tjut my stomach be mighty strong; strong enough for both of 



.Enter Lady Winford and Walter. 

Walter. [Runs to the arbor.] Here she is, Mama ! [Seizes 
Maggie, icho is nearly choked with the cake she is trying to sicallow 
down.] Come, you thief, come to mama! 

Alfred. Walter, leave Maggie aloue. 

Lady. Come here, you idiot ! Why did you not obey when 
Walter told you to come and see me this morning ? 

Maggie. Oh, you will be a beatin' me n^w ! I nivir stealed 
the cake; nivir, nivir! 

Lady. Do not aggravate your misbehavior by adding lies to 
it, or I will-soon teach you better manners, you idiot ! 

Alfred. My lady, the poor girl is but a poor, weak-minded 
creature! Pray, have pity on her ! 

Lady. Dare you interfere? I shall have to punish you, too, 
for misconduct. Why did you cut and wound Walter's hand ? 

Alfred. The fault was his, not mine. He insisted on my 
giving him the, penknife my father gave me once. He tried to 
wrench it out of my hand and then cut himself. 

Lady. Go and ask my son's pardon. 

Alfred. Though I am sorry he hurt himself, I can perceive 
no reason to ask his pardon. 

Lady. Do you not understand ? I desire you to ask Wal- 
ter's pardon. Impudent boy, dare you refuse my commands ? 

Maggie. [Falls on her knees.] Oh, My lady, do not go a 
strikin' poor Master Alfred ! Ye be a makin' sich bad eyesas 
my aunt was a makin' when she was a goin' to beat me with 
the poker ! I be a thief! It be all my fault! I stealed the 
cake ! Beat and strike me, but not kind, good Master Alfred. 

Lady. [To Mrs. Melvil, who just now enters.] Mrs. Melvil, 
let this idiotic girl be removed from the premises! Never let 
lier show her face here again ! 



22 

Oswald Burton. [ Who has been a witness to the preceding scene, 
comes now into the foreground.] My lady, henceforth this poor 
girl shall not cross your threshold any more. I, her uncle, will 
stake care of her. 

Lady. Ah, Oswald Burton, you have returned at last. 

Oswald. Yes, My lady, home is sweet to all of us ! 

Lady. I should not be in the least surprised if Oswald Bur- 
ton be vile enough to enjoy a home wherein he deserted his wife 
and let her die alone and forsaken. 

Oswald. I am sadly afraid you find me wanting. But I 
think you are bitter on me. 

Lady. Though you may be mockingly exultant over the tri- 
umphs you gained over your poor wife, you can offer no excuse 
for the outrage done to her. 

Oswald. Well, I believe that my case is not without prece- 
dent. But true to your sex you have spoken. Forbear to taunt 
me. Do not jar on these forbidden chords. 

Lady. What do men like you care for guilt so long as they 
have success. He who wins is the saint; he who loses, the 
sinner. 

Oswald. Rest assured, My lady, success did not crown my 
efforts. All the brains left to me by the woman over whose fate 
you lament, made me only fit for a beggar — a tramp ! Is that a 
thing to be proud of ? 

Lady. [Laughs mockingly. \ Oswald Burton, the Heaven -in- 
spired poet and musician a beggar — a tramp ? Oswald Burton, 
as you sow, so you shall reap! 

Oswald. My lady, though I am always disposed rather to 
undervalue my powers of judgment than to exalt them, never- 
theless I do not share your withering scorn for beggars and 
tramps. 

Lady. Because your mind is tainted by the atmosphere you 
lived in. 

Oswald. If beggars and tramps grow troublesome and dis- 
honest they get instantly seized upon, put under lock and 
key, and there is an end to their mischief. To think them 
dangerous is an utter fallacy. 

Lady. Oswald Burton was always a cynical man. 

Oswald. Tramps think a good deal when people believe 
them asleep. I, too, took to meditation, and in my dreamy 
fashion I began to surmise that beggars and tramps are not the 
most offensive people in this world. My dull mind began to 
perceive that there are creatures on which the law cannot seize 
upon so easily as on beggars and tramps: creatures whose hy- 
pocrisy pays mock homage, lip service to virtue, who, dressed 
in velvet and satin, like the spangled mountebank, waylay and 
trick mankind ! Creatures who turn to sin like flies to sweets; 
who, for all things sacred and pure, have but a sneering remark 
or an indifferent laugh ; who are weaving and weaving their nets 



23 

for honest men till they have ruined and tricked them out of 
happiness and home, and dragged their honorable name in the 
dust ! The deeds of these creatures made my cheeks burn with 
intolerable shame, and forced me to the conclusion that 
nothing under the sun can beat their mischief done to men, 
and that they are a thousand times more offensive and danger- 
ous than beggars and tramps! 

Lady. Leave this place, my fine, raving poet, and take that- 
useless idiotic wretch with you. 

Oswald. This poor girl you are pleased to call so disdainfully ' 
a useless idiotic wretch, is the offspring of a gentle, noble- 
minded mother. A woman who made men reverent to inno- 
cence and virtue. This girl's dress, though homespun , eovers a 
heart worth winning. She frankly confessed her guilt as soon 
as she imagined her youug friend there had to pay the penalty 
for it. Like a wild summer rose we gaze on, gladdens our eye 
so, her warm heart will help to brighten the desolate days of a 
weary man. Her thought, free of guile, will make poverty ap- 
pear in her company of higher worth than riches shared with a 
treacherous and evil woman ! Pardon me, My lady, for my gar- 
rulity and my entrance here. Let me hope that the tramp, who has 
net yet grown utterly senseless to the stings of wasps, has not 
annoyed and disgusted you too much. 

[Oswald and Maggie exeunt, . 

Enter Jack. 

Lady. For the safety of men these eccentric fools, like 
Oswald Burton, ought to be shut up in a mad-house. [To 
Alfred.] For the present I am not in the mood to waste my 
time any longer on your stubbornness, my fine fellow ! Jack, 
lock this boy up in yonder summer-house, and I wish him to re- 
main therein till I have decided what punishment shall be 
most proper to administer to him. If he refuse to obey you — 
strike him ; you have my full permission. 

[Lady Wikford and Walter exeunt. 

[Alfred has seated himself in the ardor and has his head vuried 
in Ms hands.] 

Jack. Now, Master Alfred, don't give way! There is noth- 
ing to be alarmed about! You know I would rather lose my 
two hands j;han hit you. But, though there will be soon a 
split between me and My lady, I cannot yet afford to lose my 
situation. Come, let me take you to the summer-house ! We 
shall have a jolly time of it. As soon as I have put all my 
young plants into the ground, I'll come and keep you company, 
Master Alfred, and we will play a game of checkers, eh! 

[Alfred shakes his head in "denial.] 



2i 



Enter RacheiL. 

Rachel. [To Jack.] Hush! Allow me a few minutes with 
this boy in private. [Hands a bill to Jack.] 

Jack. With pleasure, My lady. [Bows respectfully, and in 
withdrawing says, aside.] A ten- pound note! Why, she must 
be a princess. [Jack exit- 

Rachel, [Looks at her son with great emotion 7 then falls on her 
knees, with outstretched arms, as in prayer, rises, walks up to> 
Alfred, and in laying her hand softly on his shoulder, says :] Do 
not feel distressed, dear child ! 

Alfred. [Looks up in astonishment.] Who are you, Madam ? 
I do not know you. 

Rachel. I am your friend, as I have always been — your — 
mother's — friend . 

Alfred. [Excitedly.] A friend of my mother. [Kneels be- 
fore Rachel.'] Let me kiss your hand in reverence ; this hand, 
that once in friendship was clasped by my dear mother. 

Rachel. Do you remember her still? And do you remember 
too, the day— she passed out of your life? 

Alfred. Indeed, I do remember my sweet and tender mother. 
Ah, and the dreadful reminiscences of the day she perished in 
the sea are, forever, lite with a fiery needle, engraved on my 
mind. 

Rachel. And your father, how did he receive the blow that 
fell on him? 

Alfred. After there was not a glimmer of hope left to him, 
when he saw the boat drifting along without my dear mother, 
he gazed helplessly around, and then fell heavily to the ground. 

Rachel. Ah, these reminiscences shake my very soul. 

Alfred. After I had cried myself to sleep that terrible night, 
I awoke again after some time, and, in glancing up, I saw my 
father kneeling by my bedside. " Poor motherless child !" I 
heard him say, and then he began to sob aloud. I threw my 
arms around his neck, and, mingling our tears, we both gave 
way to grief and despair! You weep, dear friend of my 
mother ? 

Rachel. Oh, let me weep ! Your tale of sorrow cuts my heart 
to the core ! 

Alfred. The profound tenderness and love my dear father 
felt for me kept him alive. He promised to live for my sake I 
And he has kept his promise ! All his anxieties and thoughts 
were given to his son's happiness and welfare. 

Rachel. But, why are you not by his side, dear child ? 

Alfred. A deep depression of mind rendered my father, of 
late, incapable of taking even an interest in the affairs of his 
son. Mr. Burlow, the clergyman of this parish, advised me to 
comply with Lady Winford's peremptory command to con- 
tinue to live in this place ; the more so, as it had been my 



25 

father's wish that Mr.-Burlow should prepare me for Oxford. 
But to-morrow I am going to join my dear father at his resi- 
dence in London, and then we shall never part again ! 

Rachel. What causes you to hope for such happiness ? 

Alfred. My father's counsel arrived here this morning, and 
confided to Mr. Burlow, my kind teacher, that the divorce be- 
tween my father and My lady, though not yet publicly an- 
nounced, was 

Rachel. Granted? 

Alfred. Yes, granted. 

Rachel. [Throws herself in wild exstacy on her knees.] Thanks, 
Father in Heaven, thanks ! ! Now my wildest hopes are 
realized at last ! In that agonizing hour, when I set the boat 
adrift, I thought myself the most wretched of unfortunates ! 
But the glorious sun bursting out of dark clouds filled my heart 
with hope again! And in my solitude, full of anguish, there 
kept whispering a faint, Heaven-sent voice: u Have patience! 
God will remember you even yet I" Then I have been wonder- 
ing when that time would come ! And now it has come at 
last! No longer shall I be desolate and an exile ! I shall be 
united with my husband and my child ! Ah, that I do not lose 
my senses in this whirlwind of joy ! ! 

Alfred. How am I to understand your great emotion ? You 
shiver — are you ill ? 

Rachel. The mother — for whose loss you so deeply mourn — 
she lives ! 

Alfred. Lives ? And where, where is she? 

Rachel. Here you behold her. I — am — your mother!! 

Alfred. Ah, my mother! Dearest mother ! ! 

Rachel. My child! How I have hungered for your love! 

Alfred. Can I believe it ! Is this reality or a dream ? 

Rachel. Though it seems a wild, delicious dream! it is 
reality ! The full light of happiness will henceforth shine on 
us! Nothing shall part us evermore! I will fceep and guard 
my treasure! Ah, 1 hold in my arms my son, my glory, my de- 
light!! 

Alfred. Oh, dearest, sweetest mother! How can I ever repay 
such devotion, such great love ? 

Rachel. Dearest ! you pay me now by your kisses, your fond 
love! 

Alfred. Dearest, sweetest mother! 

Rachel. For ten years I have been dreaming, dreaming, 
dreaming of this meeting! Years, doleful and dreary, and the 
tears of blood I shed, are now paid, richly paid! 

Alfred. My dearest mother. 

Rachel. Hush ! I hear footsteps ! They must not find us here 
together ! Hush ! [Exit Rachel. 



26 



Enter Lady Winford, Lord Gordon, Walter, jACBi and Mrs. 

Melyil. 

Walter. Did I not tell you the truth, mamma ? There he is 
still. 

Lady. What is the cause of your disobedience ? 

[Alfred holes radiant with happiness, and remains silent.'] 

Lady. Do you refuse to answer, spiteful boy ? 

Gordon. Pray, your Ladyship, let the matter rest there. The- 
poor boy ought to be entitled to your sympathy and pity. 

Lady. Lord Gordon, your constant outbursts of moral plati- 
tudes are growing wearisome of late. Spare me them in 
future. 

Gordon. [Coldly, hit with the finest manners of an aristocrat > 
speaks] : Once before I told your Ladyship, though I was fully 
aware that the goddess, at whose shrine I am worshipping, is a 
false idoL I still continued to see in her a goddess. But, when 
this goddess divests herself of her divinity, and turns before our 
eyes into, a common mortal, a cruel woman, the scales fall off 
from them, her allurements vanish, and the desire ceases to 
lavish on her any further platitudes. Lady Winford, I bid you 
an eternal farewell ! [Bows respectfully, and exit. 

Lady. [Suppresses her anger and speaks to Jack.] Remove 
this boy to the place I told you. 

Jack. Pardon me, My lady. If you discharge me on the 
spot, I cannot, will not do it ! 

Lady. Then you are discharged. [To Alfred.] Come, fol- 
low me. 

Alfred. Lady Winford, to day. is my fifteenth birthday. 
Pray, do not insist on punishing me like a child. 

Lady. You dare refuse me your obedience ? 

Alfred. My obedience belongs from to-day to my father. 
Let me communicate to you the news that a messenger has come 
to take me to my father's resi 

Lady. The boy must be crazy. [Laughs mockingly.] It seems 
to run in the family! I am not in the mood to ba trifled with 
any longer. Do you know who you are, my proud fellow ? 
Do you not know that your father's first marriage never -was 
proved, and Lord Winford's father refused to acknowledge it, 
up to his death ? You are nothing but a beggar and a bastard ! 

Come, or . [She wears a riding-habit and has a whip in her 

hand, which she lifts up as if to strike Alfred.] 

Rachel. [Parts them.] Do not touch this boy ! Do not deal 
him a single blow ! 

Lady. Who are you ? How dare you interfere? 

Rachel. [With suppressed emotion.] Your friend, who parted 
with you forever, called you a cruel woman ! and I can only 
verify his words. 

Lady. Am I bewitched ? How dare you, a stranger, offer 



27 

me such an insult ? What is this boy to you, and what is your 
name? 

Rachel. [Looks fondly at her son.] What is this boy to me ? 
I love him dearly ! My blood runs in his veins ! 

Lady. Explain this ridiculous assertion, pray. 

Rachel. [Still fondly looking at her son.] He was my little 
nursling. 

Lady. What ? Ha! ha! ha! His nurse ? A servant daring 
a Lady Winford's commands ? A nameless woman has the 
impudence 

Rachel. Not nameless ! No ! Not nameless ! I will prove 
myself to be — what you are not — Lady Winford, Lord Win- 
Word's legitimate wife, and this boy their lawful son and heir ! 



END OF ACT SECOND. 



ACT THIRD. 



(A small reception-room in Lord Winford's residence in 
London.) 

SCENE I. — Mrs. Melvil and Jeanette. 

Jeanette. Madame, have ze goodness to prepare mine Lady 
Winford's apartments. Mine lady vill arrive here in a' hour. 

Melvil. Miss Jeanette, you must trouble yourself to give your 
lady's orders to Mrs. Welmore, Lord Winford's housekeeper. I 
am only a guest in this house myself. 

Jeanette. Plait-il? An guest? Comment? How can madame 
be guest here? 

Melvil. In the capacity of our new mistress, Lady Winford's 
friend, thaft honor has been bestowed on me. 

Jeanette. [Laughs mockingly.] Certainement ! C'est bien drole ! 
Mine lady vill soon makes a end of zis aventuriere, adven- 
turess you like to call Lady Winford your amie, friend. J'ai 
l'honneur de vous saluer, amie, friend, of new made Lady Win- 
ford. Ha, ha, ha, ha! [Jeanette laughing, exit. 

Melvil. [Alone.] Artificial and frivolous like her mistress. 
Life seems nothing but a holiday, a merry carnival to them. I 
did not feel in the mood to answer her Frenchy chatter, my mind 
being altogether absorbed in the task which course we should 
pursue to effect a meeting between my dear Rachel and her hus- 
band. To see my poor friend at peace is now my most heartfelt 
prayer. 

Enter Jack. 

Jack. Please, Mrs. Melvil, can you spare me a few minutes ! 
Will you kindly listen to what I have to say to you? 

Melvil. Certainly, I will ; speak, dear Jack. 

Jack. My mother, whom I came to visit in this house to-day, 
has communicated to me the happy news that my rich bachelor 
uncle has left me in his will his farm and a snug little fortune 
besides. 

Melvil. I am rejoiced to hear of your good luck. You fully 
deserve it, dear Jack. 

Jack. Mrs. Melvil, there is still something wanting to com- 
plete my felicity. I love your daughter and you can make' me 
happy beyond expression by allowing her to become my wife. 



29 



Melvil. Does my daughter reciprocate your feelings? 

Jack. Mrs. Melvil, I think I am not mistaken in believing 
that our feelings are mutual. Though dear Lily may still be 
4inconscious as to the real nature of her feelings. 

Melvil. You are both still very young to assume the fetters and 
responsibilities of wedded life. But, nevertheless, it may be ad- 
visable to marry a young girl to an honest man like Jack Wel- 
more, who would place her in a quiet, happy home, beyond the 
corruption and temptation of this world. 

Jack. Dearest Mrs. Melvil, you fill my heart with pride and 
hope. 

Melvil. Dear Jack, a mother cannot help feeling a pang of 
jealousy and dread in surrendering her child to a stranger. But 
you are like a son to me. In your earliest boyhood I had often 
occasion to observe with what tender heart and noble nature 
Heaven had endowed ycu. To you I will joyfully trust the fu- 
ture of my only child, whose sunny, quiet existence has not yet 
been darkened by a single cloud. 

Jack. You touch ine/Mrs. Melvil, beyond my power to ex- 
press. The praises of a lady I so deeply revere and respect are 
indeed a high reward for me. I will try to deserve them. You 
have given me the best gift there is in this world — trust! 

Melvil. Dear son, that is generously, bravely spoken. Hence- 
forth my prayers will hover over you and your future wife — 
to guard and bless you ! 

Jack. Permit me now, dear mother, to speak to your 
daughter. 

Melvil. Delay it for an hour. I wish you to remain in this 
or in the adjoining room, in order to give me immediate notice of 
Lady Winford's arrival. Dear Jack, will you oblige me in this 
one instance? 

Jack. With all my heart, Mrs. Melvil ! It seems quite queer 
that Lady Winford should venture to come here under the exist- 
ing circumstances. Her position in the main has been rather 
uncomfortable of late. 

Melvil. How strangely these things work. Her hard, light 
and wanton nature caused her never to bore herself with do- 
mestic or maternal responsibilities. But the last shock will go 
home to her. 

Enter Adolphus. 

Jack. Mrs. Melvil, she will soon be as larky as ever, if she 
has once shaken off all restraint. She is a true French woman of 
the period. 

Adolphus. Mrs. Melvil, will you grant me a private conversa- 
tion with you? Mr. Welmore, nothing need any longer detain 
you. 

Jack. I assure you, I feel my own temerity in having been 
obliged to interfere with Mr. Adolphus Snigger. [Exit. 

3* 



30 



Adolph. Mrs. Melvil, permit me to find you a chair. 

Melvil. Do not trouble yourself. Mr. Adolphus. What is it 
you wish to say to me? 

Adolph. Before I broach the very delicate subject of my 
communication to you, deign to accept this little floral offering 
as a tribute I owe to the mother of charming Miss Lily. 

Mdvil. [Takes the 'bouquet.'] You are very kind, Mr. Adolphus, 
but excuse me when — 

Adolph. Let me open my heart to you, Mrs. Melvil. Your 
daughter, this pearl of women, has, with her freshness, her 
buoyancy, her mien, her voice, her eye, her manifest affection 
for me, given me the undeniable proof that she has become my 
fate, a late from w r hich there is no escape. 

Melvil. Mr. Adolphus, I have been always well aware of your 
genius for making fine speeches. But, please, do not waste this 
genius on me. Though my daughter is still very young — 

Adolph. I do not mind that ! Do not grow nervous on that 
score, clear madam ; I rather like it. But these young girls 
ought to be put early under the matrimonial yoke to keep them 
out of mischief. 

Melvil, Mr. Adolphus, there is some sense in your sug- 
gestion. 

Adolph. Oh, dear mother-in-law, how shall I be able to 
thank you ? 

Melvil. Mr. Adolphus, I am afraid you mis 

Adolph. Do not be alarmed. When you come to visit us in 
the capacity of a mother-in-law I will always give you a cordial 
greeting. You know, dear madam, my father was a gentleman, 
and I am no unworthy offspring of his. 

Melvil. Mr. Adolphus, I am sorry for having to make you ac- 
quainted with the tact, that I am obliged to deny myself your 
cordial, gentlemanly greetings. 

Adolph. Really, I do not understand you, Mrs. Melvil ! 

Melvil. The man I have chosen for my daughter is not you, 
Mr. Adolphus. Pardon me, you would be no match for her. 

[Places the bouquet on the table and exit. 

Adolph. [ Walks up and down. Jack, who has been listening 
to the preceding scene, walks behind him.] What, refuse me, a 
gentleman? Haughty woman ! I'll teach you a lesson for hav- 
ing turned up your impertinent nose at me ! She shall not fool 
me by her airs of grandeur ! 

Jack. Blinded woman ! To refuse a match that would have 
added so much to the dignity of the family. No ordinary man 
could have endured such a paralysing outrage. 

Adolph. Did you play the eavesdropper, Mr. Jack? 

Jack. My duty kept me in the adjoining room; I could not 
help listening. Rest assured you have my fullest sympathy. 

Adolph. Mr. Jack, I shall make my future mother-in-law 






31 



pay for her impertinence; I have never allowed anybody as yet 
to disturb me in my fancies. 

Jack. Mr. Adolphus, I would not get angry, red and flustered 
like a country bumpkin — 

Adolph. How dare you insult me, fellow? 

Jack. I would show her that she has dealings with a gen- 
tleman. 

Adolph. Oh, never you fear. I'll get the better of her. We 
shall see ; we shall see ! 

Jack. What a fiery fellow you are, Mr. Adolphus. Do not 
exhaust all your wrath on Mrs. Melvil. You have a rival ! 

Adolph. The deuce ! 

Jack. Don't go into fits! A rival who would steal Miss Lily 
under your very eyes. Be on the watch ! 

Adolph. Do you know him ? 

Jack. Pardon me, Mr. Adolphus, mine is a distressing situa- 
tion. I know him just as well as I know myself, but I cannot 
give you his name. 

Adolph. Would to goodness you could. S'death, if I caught 
him! [Laughs.] Ha, ha, ha! I cannot help laughing at your 
idea of my having a rival. 

Jack. [Laughs.] I can't help joining in your laugh. Upon 
my soul, it seems a queer notion ; but, nevertheless, it remains 
true. I'll stake my life your rival is in earnest to carry off the 
prize you covet. 

Adolph. I can only think it a good joke. I should like to 
know the fellow who ventures after my game. 

Jack. Indeed, he must have quite an impetuous, daring spirit. 
Mr. Adolphus, if that fellow should ever marry Miss Lily Melvil, 
I'll stand the cost of his wife's wedding ring. 

Adolph. That's a good joke! Ha, ha, ha! I felt assured 
you would sympathize with me, my good Jack. 

Jack. I do, Mr. Adolphus Snigger ; I do. [Looks out of the 
window.] There, look out ; your charmer, Miss Lily, is just com- 
ing home. See ! 

Adolph. I cannot see her any more without craning my neck. 
I'll go and propose to her on the spot, in spite of her stuck-up 
mother. I am fully convinced, dear Jack, that Miss Lily is over 
head and ears in love with me. 

[ Takes the bouquet from the table, and exit. 

Jack. I will conceal myself. Let them find the coast clear. 
I'll let Mr. Adolphus swallow the bait, let the hook strike right 
into his thick-skinned vanity and conceit. [Exit. 

Enter Adolphus and Lily. 

Adolph. Miss Lily, it may be presumptive of me to say so, 
but I think I can flatter myself to possess your affections. 

Lily. [Has Adolphus bouquet in her hand. Always bashful and 



32 



star-tied.] Mr. Adolphus, do not talk to me like that! My 
mother has advised me — [Jack looks out.] 

Adolph. Pray don't, don't mention your mother ! She has 
nipped my hopes in the bud! But we need not care for her; 
there is still a future of happiness before us. " Faint heart never 
won fair lady." Miss Lily, I know you love me, and you know 
I am yonr devoted slave. 

Jack. [In the background. Aside.] That fellow's tongue runs 
like on oiled wheels. 

Lily. Mr. Adolphus, my mother has advised me, whenever a 
man — 

Adolph. Let us snap our finger at your mother's advice. Sus- 
tained by. the consciousness of your love, everything seems pro- 
pitious for our flight. 

[In falling on his knees Tie crushes a little Lily's dress.] 

Lily. Mr. Adolphus, do not crumple my dress. 

Adolph. Never mind the dress, darling ! But do not call me 
Mister! Ah, let your sweet, rosy lips syllable a warmer name! 
Angel! call me your own Adolphus! 

Jack. [Aside.] Ah, Job could not have borne his trials more 
patiently than I bear mine. 

Adolph. I besieged your heart — 

Jack. [Aside.] But not carried it by storm. 

Adolph. And now, as I have conquered it, depend on me! 
Name the day, and I will go and buy the wedding-ring, darling. 

Jack. [Aside.] Never mind, you velvet-voiced flunky, I'll 
pay for it. 

Adolph. Whenever you call on me, angel, I shall be ready to 
elope with you and get married. Our elopement will make no 
little sensation — be in all the papers ! 

Jack. [Aside.] They ought to caricature him as a confounded 
ass. 

Adolph. My angel, let me touch your ruby lips. 

Jack. [Adde.] Confusion! I long to choke the puppy! 

Lily. [Staining at Adolphus in a helpless manner.] Mr. Adol- 
phus, my mother has advised me whenever a man— 

Adolph. A flg for your mother's advice. Pluck up spirit, 
darling! If she be once my mother-in-law, I will advise her 
pretty soon to mind her own business ! Do not deny me the 
first kiss from your cherry lips. 

[Jack stands close behind Adolphus and Lily, and sneezes 
very loudly.] 

Adolph. Plague on that fellow! Why are you intruding 
here, Mr. Jack Welmore ? 

Jack. Pardon me, Mr. Adolphus Snigger. When I entered 
the room I did not see you. [Bell rings tioice.] 

Adolph. The bell rang twice— that is my summons. I have 
to answer that stupid bell, darling, but I will join you again in 



33 

s, minute. Remember — u Secrecy and love ! " Remain mute like 
-a fish ! Remember I. Will you remember, my angel ? 

Idly and Jack [Together.] Mr. Adolphus ! [Bell rings again.'] 

AdolpK Plague on that bell ! [To Jack.] You are always in 
the way. [ Walks off quickly. A pause.] 

Jack. You have made quite a conquest, Miss Lily. 

Lily. [Pouting.] I do not care a bit for it. 

Jack. You won't say so after you are Mrs. Adolphus Snigger. 

Lily. I shall never marry him. I don't want to marry in all 
my life. 

Jack. My gracious ! would you like to be put on the shelf 
like an old maid ? 

Lily. I do not know what may become of me; but I know 
that I am resolved never to give my hand if my heart cannot 
follow the gift. 

Jack. That is spoken like the brave girl I thought you to be. 
Miss Lily, pardon me for having annoyed you with my banter. 
Dear Lily, I can bear this suspense no longer! I have made up 
my mind to leave England forever for parts unknown, if — 

Lily. Jack, leave England! [Quite breathless with emotion.] 
^What on earth put that into your head? 

Jack. There is nobody who cares for me here — nobody that 
loves me. 

Lily. But, Mrs. Welmore, your good mother, w 7 hat will she 
say? And — oh, Jack! [Rides her face in her bouquet.] 

Jack. [Talks to her softly over her shoulder.] Do not cry, dear 
Lily ! You are too pretty to cry. Let not your little head hang 
down like a lily in the rain ! Do not bury your face in the rose- 
buds — you a rosebud yourself ! Dearest, look in my face ! Tell 
me, would it grieve you if I passed forever out of your life? 

Lily. [Drops the bouquet and clasps her hands before her face, 
weeping.] Oh, Jack! 

Jack. [Still talking over her shoulder.] Dearest, do you love 
me? 

Lily. [Quite breathless } and still keeping her back turned to 
Jack.] Oh, Jack, I can't tell! 

Jack. Of course you are such a child. Let us think about it 
together ; let us try to find out whether you love me or not. 
Answer me, dear Lily ; what do you feel when you hear my step, 
my voice ? 

Lily. [Breathlessly.] My heart nearly stops to beat — in sus- 
pense ! 

Jack. And when I touch your hand ? 

Lily. [Breathlessly, but warmly, says :] I feel as if a flame 
were rushing — through — my veins ! 

Jack. Lily, dearest Lily ; do not let me startle you ; but there 
can be no longer any doubt — you love me! 

Lily. [Quickly turning around exclaims like a happy child:] 
Jack, I knew it all the time ! 



34 



Jack. [With happy surprise.} Oh, you little hypocrite! 

Lily. [Gleefully.] Don't look like a statue, Jack ! I loved 
you already when I was ten years old ! 

Jack. You quite surprise me ! Lily, Lily, how is that ? 

Lily. Six years ago, when the snow had fallen a foot deep, a 
boy upset me in my little sleigh. You chanced to see me when 
I was tumbling into the snow. Like lightning you ran up to 
me, picked me up, then brushed the snow carefully off my 
clothes, blew in my cold hands to warm them, and then— kissed 
rue — [joyfully, like a child}. Yes, Jack, you did kiss me! And 
then you seated me in the sleigh and gave me such a ride ! And 
since [her voice trembling with emotion] that sleigh ride, dearest 
Jack, I have always loved you ! 

Jack. After we are married, my sweet dear pet, I am going 
to buy a splendid sleigh, and every snowfall we get, we shall 
have, together, capital rides to commemorate the day I won 
jour heart. Oh, Lily, what a cosy, cheery, home we will make 
for ourselves. 

Lily. Dear Jack, and I will place all my nice geraniums, car- 
nations and rose-trees therein. 

Jack. Lily ; now being quite rich, I am going to build you a 
snug little conservatory. You, a gardener's daughter, and a 
^gardener's wife, must not be without one. 

Lily. Dear Jack, how kind you are ! And then I will place 
all my pet birds in the conservatory, and in winter, among our 
flowers and singing birds, we shall imagine it an eternal spring 
and summer. 

Jack. And when little Jack and little Lily have come to 
bless us 

Lily. [Hides her face.} Oh, Jack; don't! 

Jack. I am going to buy them two splendid ponies in order 
to enable them to escort us on our sleighing excursions. 

Lily. [ Very seriously says :] No, Jack, Lily must not ride 
on horseback. 

Jack. Well, sweet pet, let us not have our first quarrel over 
that critical point. When little Lily is once there, and old 
enough to ride on horseback, we will let her decide about that 
matter herself. Oh, Lily, Lily; I think I have reason to believe 
you will soon henpeck me dreadfully ! 

Lily. Henpeck! what is that, Jack? 

Jack. [Taking Lily in Ms arms.] As I do not see any urgent 
necessity to give you a definition of that ominous word, I will 
leave it to you, darling, to find out*its meaning for yourself. 

Enter Adolphus. 

Adolphus. [Dumbfounded.] By Jove! can I trust my eyes! 
What does this familiarity mean ? 

Jack. It means that I am now in the position to make you 



35 



acquainted with the fact, that Miss Lily Melvil will soon change 
her name for that of Mrs. Jack Welmore. 

Adolphus. Oh, what a deceitful, miserable world it is we 
live in ! 

Lily. We think it a beautiful world ; don't we, Jack? 

Jack. My pet, earth seems to me a perfect Heaven ! I could 
dance for joy! 

Adolphus. Could you? Well, wait a bit, my joyful fellow; 
your future mother-in-law will soon mar your pleasure. Her 
mulish temper will soon strike up a tune, after which dancing 
shall grow wearisome. 

Jack. Now stop your bosh about my mother-in-law, or I will 
make you collapse like a vacant wind-bag. 

Adolphus. Fellow ; do not forget that you are talking to a 
gentleman. 

Jack. Gentleman ! A clumsy bear who stands in need of a 
good licking; that's what you are. 

Adolphus. Well, all the licking you want your mother-in-law 
will administer to you. 

Jack. Do not utter another word against this worthy lady. 

Adolphus. Worthy or not worthy; raother-in-laws are all 
alike — dreadful and plaguy. 

Jack. Now stop this exaggeration of the vulgar I A fellow 
of your stamp would indeed rouse the mildest temper of a 
woman into scorn and wrath ! Let us try to earn the respect of 
the mother who gives us her child in trust ; her child, which 
she reared in innocence and virtue, like my little blossom here ; 
let us make allowance for what she has or has not in her charac- 
ter, a simple tribute of her love and devotion to her child ; let 
us not attempt to make her very child apostate to the affection 
and obedience she owes to her — and a bad mother-in-law would 
be as rare as a thunder-storm in winter. 

Adolphus. Very fine, Mr. Jack ! You are quite entertaining. 

Jack. Let us honor the woman who is so well beloved by her 
grandchildren ! When, of an afternoon, she comes to visit her 
little darlings, how they are scrambling out of the room to meet 
her; how her very voice charms them; how they are nestling 
round dear granny, whose sweet familiar face seems to light up 
their home like sunshine. Even as she has loved them in life, 
so in death her last gaze dwells on them in speechless and im- 
measurable love, which seems to plead to the husband of her 
child: My son, do not forget your word to make her happy! 
Keep me in your memory and bless you all! — In her we lose our 
best well-wisher and truest friend ! Oh, all these sneerers, like 
you, flunky, I would like to see in the loftiest position : hanged, 
hanged on the highest tree in the land ! [Bell rings ticice.] 

Adolphus. You may bless your star that for the present I 
have no time to waste to punish you for your impudence. 

Jack. It will save me the trouble, too, to be obliged to spoil 



36 

your personal appearance. Though you would never be in dan-' 
ger of being painted for your beauty, Mr. Adolphus Snigger. 

Adolphus. [Bell rings twice.] Low-born creatures!' Birds of 
a feather! 

Jack Sour grapes, Mr. gentleman Adolphus ! sour grapes ! 
[Adolphus picks up the bouquet Lily dropped on the floor; 
then, with a contemptuous sniff, exit,] 

Lily. Dear Jack, now I must go and tell my dear mother. 
Oh, what will she say ? 

Jack. That she rejoices in her children's happiness. My duty 
keeps me here for the present — in this room ; but I shall soon 
be able to join you, my pet. 

Lily. Oh, Jack, how happy I am. [Exit. 

Enter Jeanette. 

Jeanette. Ah, Monsieur Jaques ! Je suis charmee de vous 
voir. I be zo happy to see you ! 

Jack. Miss Jeanette, I can only return the compliment.. 

Jeanette. I be never zo please as ven I be viz Monsieur 
Jaques. Vraiment ! You look zo fine, and strong, and nice. 

Jack. Thank Heaven, I am sound in wind and limb. 

Jeanette. You are zo galant ; zo an cavalier to ze ladies. 

Jack. To be obliging to the ladies has always been my motto 
since my mother put the first pair of breeches on her son. 

Jeanette. But be zere not an particular lady you like better 
zan ze ozers ? 

Jack. Miss Jeanette, you ask questions in such startling un- 
foreseen manner. 

Jeanette. Ha, ha, ha! You be an bashful young man. I vill 
help you un peu an little. 

Jack. Miss Jeanette, you are such a clever tactician you ought 
to know how to handle bashful fellows. 

Jeanette. Do you love an lady, Monsieur Jaques ? 

Jack. I know one who is not indifferent to me. 

Jeanette. Monsieur Jaques, dites moi ; tell me, iz she here in 
ze 'ouse ? 

Jack. Yes, Miss Jeanette, she is for the present in this house. 

Jeanette. And you love her, beaucoup, much, Monsieur 
Jaques ? 

Jack. I do love her with all my heart. 

Jeanette. And you zink her nice ? 

Jack. Nice ! I do not think her only nice, but the loveliest, 
most charming girl ever born ! 

Jeanette. Monsieur Jaques, say no more ! mine modesty vhich , 
belong zo much to mine country women, make me blush. Oh, 
Jaques ! 

Jack. [Aside] I should like to see her perform that miracle. 
[Aloud.] Where were you born, Miss Jeanette ? 



37 

Jeanelte. A Paris! In Paris! * 

Jack. [Aside.'] Of course ! All, down to the scullery maid, 
are born in Paris. 

Jeanette. And I had an countess in mine family. 

Jack. Oh, oh, oh, Miss Jeanette ! [Aside.] I knew she would 
not do it cheaper. 

Jeanette. You need not blush for mine family, mine birz. 
And you, Monsieur Jaques ? 

Jack. I cannot claim such a high-born dame for my ancestor. 
My father was a plain Englishman ; and my mother, who lives 
here, in the capacity of Lord Winford's housekeeper, is a sim- 
ple German. 

Jeanette. [Quite disdainfully.'] A Germain ! 

Jack. Does that shock you, Miss Jeanette ? 

Jeanette. Never mind, you vill make good for zat drawback. 
Ah, Monsieur Jaques, you vould be vorzy to be an Frenchman ! 
Yraiment ! Sur mon honneur ! 

Jack. How generous you are ! You quite touch me. But, 
nevertheless, you would be miles beyond me, Miss Jeanette. 

Enter Lily. 

Lily. [Runs up to J ack, and in embracing him stys :] Oh, 
Jack, I am so happy ! Oh, Jack ; my dearest Jack. 

Jeanette. [Quite dumbfounded.] Your be a very saucy man- 
ner for an young girl to act and speak zo viz young men. 

Jack. Miss Jeanette, you did not ask the name of the lovely 
girl who possesses my heart. Allow me to present to you here 
the future Mrs. Welmore. 

Jeanette. [First startled, then breaks out into a mocling laugh.] 

Lily. Jack, does that girl mean to mock us by her laugh ? 

Jack. Oh, no ! Miss Jeanette, who had a countess in her 
family, is far too high bred for that. She only wants to show 
us her beautiful teeth. 

Lily. Why, Jack, they are not her own ; they are false teeth ! 

Jeanette. [ Who has been laughing till Lily makes the remark 
about her teeth, now fairly screaming with rage, says:] Ah, you 
impudent little liar ! 

Jack. [Holds Jeanette back ichen she tries to pounce on Lily.] 
Steady, steady, Miss Jeanette, a high-born lady like you ought 
not to venture on any familiarity with low-born people. 

Lily. Bessy, the chambermaid, told me that she* found, one 
morning, the whole set of teeth Miss Jeanette has now in her 
mouth, on the wash-stand. 

Jeanette. [Pretends to be nearly fainting.] Ah, mon Dieu, I 
be afraid zis vill go on my nerves ! 

Jack. [Aside.] I hope so, too; it would do her good. 

Lily. Bessy said Miss Jeanette looks horrible when she 
not done up with paint and all other things. 



38 

Jeanette Ah, Sapristi, zis is too much ! [Dashes at Lily, j 
You little wretch, you 

Jack, Lily, keep close to me ; she shall not hurt you. 

Lily. {Behind Jack, speaks oxer his shoulder.] I am not the 
least bit afraid of her, Jack ; not the least bit ! 

Jack. Well, then it is time for me to start. Danger de- 
velops a man's qualities, but how shall I manage to keep these 
two beauties apart ! 

Lily. Jack, Jeanette is no beauty ! Did I not tell you that 
she is all made up ! 

Jeanette. JMorbleu! Come here, you little liar, I vant to 
punish you ! [Dashes at Lily.] 

Jack. {Holds Jeanette hack.] Now be reasonable, Misa 
Jeanette ! Do not grow as thorny as a porcupine, lest I should 
hurt myself in being obliged to handle you. You had better 
avail yourself of the open air and give your nerves a chance to* 
quiet down. 

Jeanette. [Now tenting her wrath on Jack.] You barbarian ! 

Jack. Now honest, Miss Jeanette, did you not say, some min- 
utes ago, I was worthy to be a Frenchman ? 

Jeanette. You — you — Germain ! 

Jack. Thank you, Miss Jeanette. 

Jeanette. [In great rage, stands face to face with Jack.] You — 
you — you — Bismarck ! [Exit. 

Lily. Dear Jack, what a dreadful name was she hurling at 
you. Who is Bismarck ? 

Jack. A man who has caused her countrymen considerable 
indigestion ! A man who has pushed a nut between their teeth 
over which they are still puzzling how best to crack it. 

Enter Maggie and Adolphtjs. 

[Adolphtjs opens the door respectfully for Maggie. The latter 
is dressed very elegantly. Adolphus arranges her train, hands 
her the bouquet Lily had dropped, then bows and leaves the room 
with his nose turned up, looking at Jack and Lily.] 

Maggie. He is a thinkin' me a great one! [Laughs gleefully.'] 
Ha, ha, ha ! 

Jack. Halloh ! our Maggie ! 

Lily. I scarcely knew her, Jack ! 

Maggie. Bran new, Miss Lily. [Looks proudly at her cos- 
tume.] Bran new, Mr. Jack. 

Lily. r>ear Maggie, how did you get that fine costume. 

Maggie. Our new lady be 7 a givin' it me. [Very satisfied 
and proudly says:] Yes Miss Lily, she do. She be' a sayin' to 
me this morning: Maggie, she say, you have be' a friend to my 
dear son, what would you be a wishin' for you ? Oh, My lady, I 
says, give me that butiful dress that your maid be a packin' out 
of your trunk this mornin\ Willin'ly, she say with a smile, and 
then she be a sighin' agin and say: Happy girl, who can be 



39 



made happy with so little ! My ! a callin' this here butiful dress 
little ! I ain a thinkin' it the iligantest, biggest and mightiest 
thing in the world ! 

Jack. You are now quite a great lady, Maggie. 

Maggie. [Gleefully.'] Oh, Jackey, Miss Lily, I am not a 
Tmowin' if I am a standin' on my head or a standin' on my 
heels ! 

Jack. Now you shall soon have plenty of sweethearts, Maggie. 
How do you like Mr. Adolphus ? 

Maggie. [Disdainfully.] No, he be not my style! I be a 
lookin' higher ! He is always a lookin' like a weathercock, 
with his nose a turned up. 

Jack. Why, Maggie, you are quite a clever, sensible girl. 

Maggie. Oh, I am a gettin' smart, awful smart ! Master Alfred 
and my dear uncle, for whom our new Lady have be' a promisin' 
me to find a livin', they will a goin' on kiltiwatiu' my mind. 
Yes. they do ; but our new Lady be a sayin' this mornin' : Maggie, 
never ye mind kiltiwation, be a keepin' always a warm heart, 
Maggie, and you will be all right ! And then she was a kissin' 
me and a lookin' so kind and sweet as my dear dead mother 
would have be' a lookin' at me, if she was a livin' ! [Cries and 
pulls out her handkerchief and with it a small pocket. Laughs.] 
Now I am a wantin' no more big pockets ! Our new Lady was a 
tellin' me to go a eatin' all the sweet things I be a wantin'. My ! 
she would be a open' her eyes if she be a knowin' what a big lot 
I have be' a stowin' away since I be' in this here house ! The 
stingy other lady nivir was a wantin' to give me nothin' but 
bread and pitaters. She was a sayin' that be good enough for a 
gal who was a burden on her hands. 

Jack. She will soon be here, Maggie. You had better keep 
out of her way. 

Maggie. Let her be a coinin' ! I am not a bit afeard of her 
no more. I will be a snappin' my finger at her. I will not be 
a goin' from this here very spot ! Oh, I am gettin' smart, awful 
smart ! I am a goin' to take other measures with Lady Winford. 

Jack. There is her carriage dashing up the street. She will 
be in this room in a few minutes. What measures are you 
going to take now, Maggie ? 

Maggie. I am a goin' to — take — to— my heels. [Buns off 
quickly. Jack and Lily laugh heartily.] 

Jack. Now, my sweet pet, let us go in order to inform our 
dear mother of Lady Winford's arrival. 

Lily. Our mother! How beautifully that sounds. Oh, Jack, 
what a happy couple w r e are ! 

Jack. \ Embracing Lily.] My sweet little Lily ! [Lily and 
Jack remain in this embrace during the fall of the curtain.] 



END OF ACT THIRD. 



ACT FOURTH. 



SCENE I. — Parlor and Conservatory. 
Rachel and Lady Winford. 

Lady. How will you justify yourself, madam, to come here 
under a feigned name ? 

Bachel. If I chose to wear a disguise I need at least not be 
ashamed of it. 

Lady. Madam, I can now comprehend how your suave man- 
ners, which generally belong to women of your stamp, could 
lure Lord Winford into an alliance of youthful indiscretion. 

Rachel. I will not resent your gusts of sneering insult; but 
do not barb your words too keenly: do not pour oil on the 
flame of indignation roused in my heart by your cruel conduct 
towards my husband and my son. 

Lady. It will require a little more than the stories your in- 
genuity has conjured up to make me believe in the validity of 
your marriage. Besides, I am resolved to carry my case to the 
court of appeals. Be careful, madam, not to commit follies too 
prematurely. Weak and changeable Lord Winford, whom you 
are pleased to call husband, may not be very anxious, after the 
lapse of ten years, to take to his bosom again the faded woman, 
who proved to be irresistible to him at sweet sixteen. 

Bachel. My womanly dignity renders me invulnerable to 
your sarcastic stings. But do not cast your venom on the noble 
man you have dishonored. 

Lady. Indeed, your acting is unparalleled ! Your vehement 
defense of this weak and heartless man you are claiming for your 
husband, is quite diverting. 

Rachel. Weak and heartless ? A man of a more generous, 
chivalrous nature, a sweeter temper, a more lavish kindli- 
ness, never lived ! When he did you the honor to bestow on 
you the sacred name of wife, and gave in your keeping his own 
and his child's future happiness, how did you enter on your 
great trust? You made yourself unworthy of his love and re- 
spect. Your jaundiced eye watched his slightest caress to my 
child; because envy stung you to the quick. 

Lady. Though your tirades are not of a very striking origi- 
nality, they, nevertheless, contrive to amuse me. Go on, madam. 

Rachel. When I laid down my happiness in instant sacrifice, 



41 

self, gliding far away from me, I meant to carry it out to the 
end ! I would have blessed you, worshipped the very ground 
you walked on, had you proved to be a faithful wife to your 
noble husband, and a kind friend to the motherless child. 
J3ut great sins are at your score, and there is no longer any 
need to deny myself a happiness which ycu carelessly have 
flung away. Believe me, your destiny will bring you face to 
face with the guilt of your life ; it will be stronger than all 
your levity and mocking wit. Serene and impassive as you 
pretend to be, the day of judgment will come to vou in the end. 

{Exit. 
Lady, [fiises, and walking up and down, says :] These low- 
born creatures are always eager to embrace the slightest occasion 
to make a scene. 

Enter Adolphus. 

Adolphus. [Announcing.] Sir Francis, Mylady. 

Lady. [Aside.] Ah, at last ! [Aloud.] Bid him enter. 

[Exit Adolphus. 

Enter Sir Francis. 

Lady. Sir Francis, I am rejoiced to see you. 

Sir Fr. [Serious and reserved.] Your Ladyship, you informed 
me, in your letter of to-day, that you wished to see me in order 
to communicate some important news. 

Lady. Yes, dear friend, news of great consequence. My law- 
yer has advised me to carry my case to the court of appeals. 
L>ut, before I avail myself of his advice, I should like to hear 
your opinion about it. 

Sir Fr. Lady Winford, I have every reason to believe that 
you had a fair trial — elaborately fair. Therefore it is better 
that we should go no further. 

Lady. Your language was different the last time you quitted 
me. 

Sir Fr. Let us understand each other. Lack of frankness 
would be injustice. I have gathered every scrap of intelli- 
gence concerning your case, and have come to the conclusion 
how fruitless my efforts would prove to right you before the 
world. 

Lady. Sir Francis, explain yourself more clearly. 

Sir Fr. When you taxed your husband with falsehood, it was 
not he who was false. 

Lady. Ah, Sir Francis, you will not do me justice either. 

Sir Fr. Justice has been administered to you. 

Lady. Lord Winford's proceedings were treacherous and un- 
just. 1 was more sinned against than sinning. I am innocent, ' 
and most perfidiously wronged. 

Sir Fr. Mabel, be calm and contain yourself. Nothing 



42 

could have induced me to throw up your case, if it had been a 
just one. The verdict of the law has my full approbation. 

Lady. I am an unfortunate woman ! Ah, to see myself 
wronged by the only man I ever loved ! 

Sir Fr. Mabel, I doubt if you ever contemplated your feel- 
ings for me in such a serious light. 

Lady. If you care for the denial! — yes, and a thousand times 
yes, I do love you ! Circumstances of the most painful nature 
forced me from you. This has often caused me intense misery. 
I cannot endure to be judged harshly by you. 

Sir Fr. Mabel, do not resent my words. Justice and honor 
forbids me seeing you any more; but it does not change my de- 
sire to befriend you. 

Lady. Befriend me! Ah, Sir Francis, you never loved me? 

Sir Fr. I did love you ; but now 

Lady. But now ? 

Sir Fr. Love once dead knows no awakening in a man's 
heart. 

Lady. Men are not known for constancy, and now I approve 
of my mother's teachings, though they called her a frivolous 
Frenchwoman, that love is only a fool's paradise ! —an angel 
when it comes, and a demon when it deserts us. 

Sir Fr. Let us have no controversy about this subject ; lit- 
tle could be gained by re-opening it. 

Lady. That is but too true. I am weary of life! Ab, 
woman has no power! 

Sir Fr. Pardon me if I dare to contradict you. The power 
of woman is great! A woman can make the best arid most 
honorable man an object for ridicule and contempt, or raise 
him high in the esteem of the world ! What records we have 
of true and therefore powerful women ! But woman is power- 
less, indeed, if she disposes of life's serious duties and responsi- 
bilities lightly ; imbues her mind with that materialistic philos- 
ophy which marks our present age, and disregards the pernicious 
influences it must produce on herself and her surroundings. 
They like to be terse and brilliant ; they seem to be unconscious 
of the modesties and reserves which prevail among true women. 
They pretend to be utterly without moral prejudices. Their 
cherished aim and ambition is — pleasure; though everything 
seems to urge them to simpler and nobler pursuits. To play the 
inconspicuous part of a devoted wife and a fond mother is 
looked down upon as too commonplace a task. Their frivolous 
pursuits begin with folly and end in crime, which give cause to 
such enormous scandals. In the rich and full sufficiency of 
youth life seems but a dream of pleasure; but when time begins 
to steal their charms how will they meet the weariness of old 
age ? The true woman does not challenge and destroy, but 
soften. — and build up for herself a future that will lead her to a 
noble age, an age that will have no terror for her, whether her 



43 



cheeks begin to wrinkle or are blooming with youth ! Such a 
woman has power, great power ! 

Lady. Though I may be guilty of folly and there be no par- 
allel between me and the woman you so highly praise, do not 
refuse me your sympathy, your pity. The recent blow I have 
received has broken mv spirit ! I have to drag out a wearisome 
life! 

Sir Fr. My lady, I deeply sympathize with you. But there 
is still an immense amount of good to be done in your future. 
There are grea f missions for women to fulfil. The poor, the 
aged, the infirm, will give you a field for pursuits, noble and 
pure. 

Lady. Sir Francis, I am not aware as yet of possessing any 
vocation to fill a position of a sister of mercy. 

Sir Fr. Mabel, let me have faith in your better nature. The 
doom of a purposeless life need not be your fate. Let the love 
for your only son purify and exalt your mind ! Endeavor to 
gain a prize beyond all things : your son's love and esteem ! 
Rest assured that your efforts shall meet with my heartiest ap- 
probation, and gain for you my deepest respect. 

[Sir Francis botes respectfidly and exit. 

Lady. I am crossed and disappointed and trampled on in 
every way and by everybody. I am fairly surfeited with disgust 
in having been obliged to listen to the moral outbursts of Sir 
Francis. To make angels rejoice over a repentant sinner may be 
very fine in theory, but surely not in practice. No, my canting 
Sir Francis, you shall not succeed in converting me into a sister 
of mercy and drag out a dreary, tiresome, vegetating existence. 
I will not go into sackcloth and ashes, but to my friend, Lady 
Trouville, in Italy. Her lively and animating surroundings will 
readily make me forget the wearisome life I had to lead during 
the recent trial. After all life is but short and of no importance. 
I will try to make the best of it in my own fashion. Lady Trou- 
ville's gay friends will soon compensate for all that I have en- 
dured and lost. [Exit, 

Enter Mrs. Melvil. 

Mrs. Melvil. [ Walks up to the window.'] My lady has changed 
her mind; she is not going to stay here. Now she enters her 
carriage. Thank Heaven ! she has gone at last ! What con- 
tempt I feel for that woman! How I have grown to hate her ! 
But the dishonor and shame she has brought on the house of 
Winford shall soon be wiped out forever. A merciful Heaven 
may grant my dear Rachel success in the great task that is be- 
fore her to-day. 

Enter Rachel. 

Rachel. Dear Dora, what news do you bring ? 

Melvil. Rachel, the opportunity to accost your husband has 



u 



come ! Though the doctor deems it advisable to prepare him 
by slow degrees for your revelations, and to set a strict guard 
over yourself in order not to betray your secret too prematurely, 
he has, nevertheless, the profound conviction that the great 
shock caused by joyful excitement will forever rouse him from 
the mental depression that filled us all with the greatest appre- 
hensions. 

Rachel. Oh, Dora, I shudder to think what evil I have 
wrought to him, though I hoped to do good. 

Melvil. Your noble nature has done a noble act. Dear Rachel, 
do not wrong yourself with self-accusation. 

Rachel. Dora, you are generous, indeed ! 

Melvil. Not generous, but just! The news of the granted 
divorce and his son's presence has brought new life to the de- 
pressed mind of your husband. Under the name of your twin- 
sister, whom you so greatly resemble, you may accost him with- 
out danger of recognition. Let him first conceive a glimpse of 
the truth, and hope, once awakened, will prove a powerful ally 
to further disclosure. 

Rachel. Hush, Dora ! I hear footsteps ; let us withdraw. 

[Exeunt, 

Enter Lord Winford and Alfred. 

Alfred. How kind you are, dear father, in yielding to my de- 
sire to leave the gloom of your solitary room. Ah, what a beau- 
tiful sunset ! Look, dear father ! 

Lord Winford. [ Very pale and apathetic, leans on Alfred's 
shoulder ; out not like an invalid, more like a weary man.] Beau- 
tiful, indeed! A glorious spectacle! And yet, what sad rem- 
iniscences it conjures up in my mind ! Just such a sunset it was 
when I was gazing far out to sea, and then discovered the boat 
drifting along without my wife ; my Rachel ! 

Alfred. Dear father, do not give way to these sorrowful 
thoughts. I have something to tell that may prove of some in- 
terest to you. 

Lord. There is nothing in this world that can arouse my in- 
terest, save your welfare, dear son. 

Alfred. How can I ever repay such kindness, dearest father? 

Lord. By keeping the warm, gentle heart you inherited from 
your -mother, and by keeping your mind untainted by evil de- 
sire ; then I shall not have lived my dreary life in vain. 

Alfred. Dearest father, will you kindly listen to the news I 
have to tell you ? 

Lord. Demand of me what you will. Follow your fancies in 
everything. What pleases you pleases me. 

Alfred. Father, did you never receive any news from my 
dear mother's sister ? 

Lord. No, my son. All the letters I sent her remained un- 
answered. In all probability she is dead, too. 






45 

Alfred. Dear father, would you be pleased to hear that she 
is still alive, and has returned to England? 

Lord. My Rachel's sister in England ? Ah, this is news in- 
deed, dear Alfred. 

Alfred. And would you be pleased, dear father, to see her ? 

Lord. See her ? Where, where is she ? If I had to walk 
night and day on foot, I would go and join my Rachel's sister. 
Where is she ? 

Alfred. Compose yourself, dear father. In a few minutes 
hence she will be with us. 

Lord. Thanks, dear son, for being the messenger of such un- 
expected joy. The irrepressible torpor of my mind seems to 
vanish in view of this happy meeting. 

Rachel. [In the background. Aside.] Fear, hope, joy, dread, 
makes me tremble and faint ! Heaven assist and strengthen me 
in this difficult task. 

Lord. But when will she arrive., dear Alfred ? 

Alfred. Here she is, dear father. 

Lord. ) r ,?„„! \ ^ n 5 dear sister! 

•RacM.\^ ether ^\Dekr brother! 

Lord. The very sound of my Rachel's sister's voice causes my 
heart to throb with tumultuous feelings of pain and delight ! 
You weep, dear sister ! But it is growing dark. Alfred, order 
lights, that I may see the countenance which bore so much re- 
semblance to my beloved wife. 

Rachel. I like this twilight — let us remain as we are. You 
will hardly recognize me. Ten years of grief have wrought 
great change in my features. 

Lord. Dear sister, between then and now for me, too, has 
stretched a long interval of life full of heartache and worse — 
dishonor. Sister, perhaps I may soon join my Rachel. This 
legacy, her son, I shall leave then to your care. 

Rachel. I fervently hope you may live long enough to see 
him grow into a noble manhood, and reap the reward of your 
unselfish conduct towards him. 

Lord. Ah, if it were not for his sake, life would have been 
unbearable ! Not to rob him of his title and fortune I consented 
to reconcile my father in marrying the woman he had set his 
mind on to make my wife. He is dead now, and I will forgive 
him the misery this alliance brought on his son, and the dis- 
honor, the shame that tarnished the escutcheon of the noble 
house of Winford. But now, I have regained my liberty. The 
law has rid me of a woman to whom the tragedy of a man's dis- 
honor is only fit for mockery and mirth. But, let me forget her 
Tery existence, and choose a worthier subject for our conversa- 
tion. Ah, in looking at you, dear sister, my thoughts sink far 
into the bitter past ! Bring on my memory, with all the fresh- 
ness of a recent blow, the day my Rachel had passed away from 
me forever. Dearest, often, with an aching heart, I have been 



46 

wondering where my Rachel's remains might have found its rest- 
ing place. Oftentimes I felt a pang of guilt not to have de- 
voted myself more eagerly to the task of finding her body. 

Rachel. Many times I thought it strange, too, that we never 
could succeed in finding her body. This very fact has caused 
me often vague suspicions. 

Lord. Suspicions! What does this mean, sister? 

Rachel. I have reasoned on this subject many a time, and, 
all things considered, she had perhaps some motive to make 
you believe in her death. 

Lord. This is strange language, sister. I fail to comprehend 
you. 

Rachel. I can no longer withhold from you a secret which I 
have kept for ten years. Did you not receive a letter the day 
before we lost her? Did not your father therein threaten you 
with disinheritance in case of your refusal to dissolve your 
marriage? 

Lord. Yes, I did receive such a letter; but I kept it a secret 
from my wife. 

Rachel. She found the letter — read it ! 

Lord. Sister, what a tumult you awaken in my heart! But 
she was to me like an open book; she could not have concealed 
that fact from me. She knew that our affections required no 
stimulus of wealth and title. She knew I should not have cared 
to go to the very depth of poverty with her by my side! Ah, it 
is vain and fruitless to think her still alive. 

Rachel. She was fully convinced of your firm purpose never 
to dissolve your marriage, whatever the consequences might 
have been for you. If we follow all these strange occurrences, 
here for the first time put together, must they not supply a link 
for themselves to discern her motive of making you believe in 
her death? In the first impulse to restore your father's love to 
you, may she not have decided to sacrifice her life, but then 
only carried out part of her intention, and therefore — perhaps — 
still lives? 

Lord. Sister, sister! 

Rachel. If I were not afraid that your health may give way 
under the sway of such violent emotion, I should like to tell you 
more. 

Lord. Speak, speak! Now that this lethargy of my mind 
has vanished, physical strength shall not fail me. Sister, I wish 
you had told me of all this before ! It would have roused me from 
a monotonous and irksome life. It would have made fall off the 
burden of mind! Speak, speak! I can no longer endure these 
tantalizing doubts. 

Rachel. Some time after the deplorable accident had taken 
place a rumor spread that a vessel, bound for foreign parts, had 
taken on board a lady, who had been rescued by its boat's crew. 

Lord. Sister, sister ! 



47 

Rachel. Is there Dot a possibility that this lady may be 
Rachel? 

Lord. Let us cling to this fragment of hope ! Like with a 
sorcerer's wand my mind is restored to life and action again ! 
Like one coming out of utter darkness I am dazzled by this 
bright sunshine of hope ! Like the greedy goldseeker searches 
for gold I shall from this day search for her ! And if she be still 
among the living the indefinable impulse, that mysterious attrac- 
tion which true love inspires, shall guide me to find my precious 
treasure ! 

Rachel. Let me then tell you all! I received trustworthy 
news of late. Rachel— lives ! 

Lord. Lives ! [Quite overwhelmed sinks hack into his chair* 
After a pause, recovering, speaks to Rachel.] Sister, ministering 
angel of peace and joy ! And where, where is my Rachel ? 

Rachel. At first the immediate effect of seeing my sister alive " 

proved overwhelming to me [Alfred leaves the room.] 

Lord. You have seen her, then ? — addressed her ? — — 
Rachel. She bade me tell you that love alone forced her from 
you. She knew too well that you would have loved her through 
every trial and every sacrifice. But she could ' not accept it I 
To see you suffer caused her tortures unspeakable. [Falls on her 
knees.] Gerald, Gerald, forgive me, if love for you made me 
sin ! [Alfred returns icith a lamp, which he places on the table.] 
Lord. Is this a vision of my delirious brain? This well- 
known pressure of her hand — and these eyes— these eyes ! 
Rachel. Gerald ! 

Lord. Though I behold you with wondering awe — and my 
dimmed brain seems to mock me, — no longer can I doubt — it is 
my wife — my Rachel ! 

Rachel. Yes, your Rachel ! Who, here at your feet asks for- 
giveness for her rash act, which, though prompted by her im- 
measurable love, has brought nought but misery on you. 

Lord. You ask my forgiveness ? Pure minded, rare and un- 
selfish creature! Oh, such a soul as yours! Rachel, dearest 
wife ! 

Rachel. My husband ! 

Lord. My dearest wife! On the eve of our marriage, after 
we were greeted by the sailor's cheerful shouts: u Long life to 
bride and groom! " we seated ourselves in a quiet corner with 
our hands fondly clasped together, and remained silent in our 
great happiness. Then I spoke to you words which, in this 
supreme hour, at this our second union, I will now repeat: 
M Rachel, nothing shall part us evermore but death ! " 

Rachel. My husband! [To the kneeling hoy Alfred:] My 
son ! ! 



THE END. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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